Anselms Diary - Second Entry
by rickstamp
Summary: The Second entry of Anslem of Tretogor from the Witcher School International Larp


Well, that was an interesting evening.

It turns out when Master Jodok wanted to see me after dinner, what he had in mind wasn't some fresh bruises, or even a talk on what it is to be a Witcher, or how important Humanity is, or any of the other seemingly endless topics he has for these discussion. It was a quiet corner and a bottle of White Gull.

Well, lets just say my alchemical experience was somewhat lacking in that area. He was quiet at first, filling my cup and making unusually awkward small talk – in the year I've trained with him, he's never been one for small issues. I guess he was trying to put me at ease. I guess it worked.  
Before I knew it we were talking about my past in response to his questions, and in much more detail than I had ever had to before. Stirred up a lot of memories, and some old feelings that seem almost alien to me now. That's what I've decided to write down what I remember talking about, it seemed important to him that I remember where I'm from. I can see why.  
I was the son of some moderately wealthy merchants. Nothing special. In fact, the opposite of special – all I recall is the story my Father used to tell me at bedtime, about the time he was saved on the Tretogor road by a Witcher and how in return he had to let me go and train to be one. Turns out it was Master Dirk.  
Who never came back for me.  
I left home at fourteen with my dog and a pouch of Orens that my father wouldn't miss. Turns out I wouldn't either, as the dog ran away and the pouch was lifted from my belt by someone less naive than I. It never stopped me – weaned on tales of how I was to be a Witcher, destiny dragged me from somewhere deep in my chest across the country.  
After a couple of months of travelling and living rough, I ended up in the port of Anchor. I remember it well enough, because I spent nearly twelve years there. It seemed like such a good idea at the time – find some work, make some money, travel the rest of the way without having to boil my boots for soup.  
Best laid plans, and all that.  
Within six months I was resorting to cutting purses to get by. Problem was, I was good at it, which led to getting noticed by one of the many street gangs in the area who decided that I should stick with them. That, or end up dead in a gutter for being in their "turf". They started me at the bottom, running packages and collecting money. They noticed how easily I picked things up, and being fairly well educated helped to.  
Within three years I was running the gang. Within five I had expanded our – my – territory threefold. Seven years in and the whole town was mine. I had a number of unpleasant people working for me, but I was strict with my rules – don't rough anyone up too hard if you were mugging, don't kill. The Guards were easy enough to pay off so long as we didn't leave bodies. In our own way we really cleaned the city, I guess.

Not to say those years weren't tough on me. Or rather they toughened me. I became very familiar with the knife, with when to run and when to fight. And the entire time I had one goal – reach Kaer Tiele, find the Witcher who abandoned me.

And I did. My voice quivered with fierce pride at that quiet table, barely noticing that we were the only ones still sat in the hall.

Jodok was quiet through what felt like a waterfall of words. I drained my cup, and sat there staring into the candles flickering flame in silence a while, waiting for him to say something. To condemn my actions, so different from his noble past, so different from what I try to be now. To praise my resourcefulness and resolve.  
To say anything at all.  
Instead, his own drink was finished and he stood, patting me on the shoulder.

"Go sleep now, Anselm. White Gull will give you bad headache if you stay awake too long. Fencing first thing."  
And he left, the bastard. Chest carved wide open in a way I hadn't felt in years, and no reaction at all. I'd give a godly sum of coin to know what he was thinking. But I guess he was right. Bed calls.


End file.
